


Caruvanyes Alassenen

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Akallabêth/Last Alliance, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Non-canonical to good purpose, Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, Drama, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Dangerous topic w/satisfying end, Plot - Good pacing, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Subjects - Politics, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2006-08-07
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3831882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of the Second Age, Thranduil is forced to come to terms with his own worth.   He leaves Eryn Galen behind, sets out west, and learns more in one year away than in forty-nine at home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quentalenya

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

When I was forty-nine years old, I ran away from home. The cause was a thing so insignificant that I have forgotten the exact circumstances. My father scolded me for something I had done, or something I had failed to do, or someone I had failed to be. I was a consistent disappointment to him from my early childhood through to the last days of his life. But on that one night, when he had been harsher than the usual or I more sensitive to his criticism, I resolved to leave. And so at the mid-night change of the guard I slipped from his loveless halls and out into starlit freedom.  
  
I am the youngest of my father's children, and the only son. I have four older sisters. My eldest sister, the sister I have never met, is over three thousand years my senior. She was born in Doriath, toward the end of Thingol's reign and not long before my father led his party to Ossiriand. Her mother stood opposed to my father's political ambition and remained behind with her kin. I am told she died there. My father never speaks of her, or my eldest sister, who left him long ago to marry a kinsman of Amdír in Lothlórien. She too was a consistent disappointment, when for uncountable years my father thought himself more luckless than Thingol for being cursed with only a daughter, and a daughter not even half as beautiful or clever as Lúthien. In his weak fledgling kingdom, he longed above all else for a son to strengthen his line.  
  
My mother was his second wife. She is one of the Laegrim, though my father was strictly and proudly the product of a northern branch of the family tree of a faithful follower of Thingol. He had no true royal blood, though he did take care to point out that his great-grandfather was among the last to search vainly through the woods of Nan Elmoth. That, in his mind, was a grand honour. But for however concerned he was with his own heritage, he preferred Laegellen culture. The Laegrim, he always said, were pure and uncorrupted by the decadence and classism that had plagued Doriath. They would accept him as a leader even when his common birth prevented him from rising to even the least of stations in the court of Menegroth.  
  
So, the settlement in Eryn Galen was built on a foundation of equality. There would be no class system in my father's land. When the first settlement was established at the beginning of the Second Age, he called himself Reeve rather than King, as he had been chosen by his people and would only guide them, not rule them. He never considered himself above his citizens. How many kings do you know who would dig their own wells, or plane their own doors? Would Gil-galad in Lindon have helped his neighbour sow a garden? My father did this, and governed his people by the example of his own hard work. At least in the beginning, when the settlement was new. But old habits die hard. Many of his followers came from Doriath and had lived their entire lives under the Kingship of Thingol. By their own linguistic carelessness, Reeve Oropher of Eryn Galen soon became King Oropher of Eryn Galen. And my father grew too accustomed to the prestige and power that title afforded him to give it up. By the end of the first long count, he was calling himself King.  
  
But he was still a good king. He still laboured with his hands, as much as his ever-increasing duties would allow. He was unburdened by high ambition for personal glory. In truth, the only thing he desired more than happiness and prosperity for his people was an heir. As Reeve, the necessity had not been so great. A reeve is elected, and can be succeeded by any qualified leader. But a king is a different story. Kingship is passed down from father to son, and in the case of my father's death, who would take the crown? He had no family: no sons born to him, no brothers living, no cousins known. At the best, he had a chancellor, a weasel-eyed sneak named Coristui, whose rule would never have been suffered. The future of the Kingdom of Eryn Galen was threatened so long as my father had no heir. Thauron's might was growing in the South, and he was vulnerable. So, even as Gil-galad's armies met the enemy in Eregion, my father took his second wife.  
  
It was no strange thing among the Laegrim to be twice married. The old Iathrim fought it, citing the sanctity of eternal bonds as championed by the Belain, but their ancient ways were weakened by years of assimilation. There was no longer any distinction between Iathrim and Laegrim, my father claimed. And he called them all Tawarwaith, a citizenry undivided by ancestry or former cultural bounds. They would pay no heed to the laws of the West, and the King of the Tawarwaith would by no means subject himself to Western rule. And so to spurn the interference of the powers of Balannor, who ruined the pure Elves with the addiction to light, my father married my mother on the night of the new moon. He was 2281 years old then. She was 96.  
  
It was some years before their first child, my second sister, was born. My father, by all accounts, hid his disappointment well. He was less gracious when my mother gave birth to my third sister. When my fourth sister was born, he reputedly cursed my mother, berating her for the gift of three fine daughters when all he truly wanted was a son. He accused her of producing girls out of spite. They grew apart after that and she removed herself from his bedroom to a room in the east corridor. This would naturally explain the large age gap of nearly eight hundred years between me and the youngest of my sisters.  
  
My conception date was on the first day of spring in the year 3374 of the Second Age, as far as I can calculate. I can only assume this date coincided with my father receiving troubling news of Thauron's activity in the south and thus resolving to renew his quest for a son. Luck must have been with him, or fate on his side, as on the first day of spring in 3375, I was born. My father wept for joy, my sisters said. He had been given a boy. He named me Thranduin, but according to palace legend the name was misheard and thus misspelled on the birthright scroll by a lazy scribe. I was Thranduil ever after. My father might have taken this as the first sign that not everything was right in his dream.  
  
My first portrait was painted when I was mere weeks old, lying asleep in my mother's arms. That was also the only portrait he ever commissioned of me. He guessed early on that I wasn't his ideal son, and I was continuously frustrating him with my inadequacies. I was too small. I didn't grow fast enough. I wanted to play with my toys instead of study maps of our territory. I was disinterested in weapons. I was too sensitive. I cried in front of him. I was never tall enough, strong enough, smart enough, or ambitious enough, and so whatever meagre love he originally afforded me quickly faded into disdain. However disappointing my sisters were to him, I was doubly so. He still had in his mind the image of a perfect heir: Thranduin, the father's pride. I was merely misspelled Thranduil. And no matter how hard I tried, on those long-past and rare occasions when I did indeed try to win his favour, I couldn't help but fail. It was in my nature.  
  
Maybe that was why I ran away: not for a specific event, but for the accumulation of every criticism, every frown, every defeatedly wistful sigh. I didn't wish for his approval so much as I wished for my own peace of mind, away from the fear of being constantly judged. His expectations were strangling me. To save myself, I needed to leave. I needed to go as far as I could from Eryn Galen. West, I decided. There was wasteland to the north, and Thauron to the south. East was wild and unknown. But in the west stood a firm chance. I resolved to go west, as far as I could go. To the sea, if I might, and to Círdan. My father had spoken of him often enough, and nearly always with praise. Círdan, he considered, had been the greatest Elven ruler until deferring to the crushing kingship of Gil-galad.  
  
I was no stupid child who ran away on a whim, though. As useless as my father thought me, I was well-trained enough to care for myself. I had been planning this, whether consciously or not, for a long time. I had been training. I knew exactly which leafy plants were the best to eat, and which concealed valuable root vegetables underground. I knew where to look. I knew how to make and set traps and, if need be, make crude but effective weapons out of branches and stones. I could build a shelter out of sticks and my spare cloak. My father always said I spent too much time outdoors, but how am I to blame when it was he who drove me from his halls? He drove me to wander, further and further afield, until that one night when I told myself not to go back.


	2. Uswenya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of the Second Age, Thranduil is forced to come to terms with his own worth. He leaves Eryn Galen behind, sets out west, and learns more in one year away than in forty-nine at home.

The first five days away went well. Even with my pack of clothing and food as burden, I was able to move easily through the forest at a good speed, hurrying as I could to put distance between me and the trackers I knew my father would send. I had travelled that route before. But then, I had been with my father's guard. And I had never been beyond the edge of the wood. As night fell on the fifth day, I stepped out from the western eaves of Eryn Galen and looked at the open land before me. In that moment I began to doubt myself. The mountains loomed in the distance, tall and shadowed dark, as a great barrier between me and freedom. They had been a barrier before, in those years before time was reckoned, to the Thindrim who followed Araw to the sea. And they had been a barrier to my father's people travelling from Ossiriand to their new home. Both times they had been overcome. I drew on that thought for strength and courage with every step that drew me closer.  
  
It took me three more days to reach the foothills of the Hithaeglir. Those nights I slept in relative comfort beneath the stars. But the following nights, climbing higher into the rocky passes, comfort proved to be an impossibility. I slept crouched on stone ledges, or huddled at the base of sheer cliff faces amid snow and ice. Spring was still too new to have crept into the mountains. At night the very air froze, and I awoke with frost on my hair and cloak. Every morning, I could feel the cold sinking deeper into my body. I began to feel the bite of the wind more sharply the longer I went without warmth or proper rest. My muscles moved more slowly. Every breath strained.  
  
There was a blizzard one night. Winds howled across flat mountain faces, carrying gusts of hard snowflakes that felt like stinging shards of ice as they whipped against my skin. It hit in the black of night when I, already shivering and ready to collapse to my knees, had no strength remaining to fend off the cold. I could not even stand. I let the wind take hold of my body, and let myself fall, dropping heavily into the snow that drifted so quickly beside my feet. I slumped hard against the mountain rock, but felt nothing. Then I closed my eyes. The thought, "I will die now," crossed my mind, followed by the strangely comforting, "And all is well."  
  
But I awoke not as a houseless spirit. I lived through that night, albeit in a cold and pain-wracked body. Everything was entirely dark and nearly silent. I sat upright. A sickening pain shot through my right arm, which had been pinned beneath me as I lay. I touched it with my left hand, and felt the strange, crooked contour. It was broken. I had fallen, I remembered. I must have broken it in the fall. And now I was in a dark, quiet place. A cave, I thought, as there were walls of rock at my back and left side. I was too relieved by the fact that this place was almost warm to be concerned over exactly where it was. I sat there, not moving, for a long time.  
  
When day came I learned the truth. The sun hitting the mountain face shone brightly, and the thin ceiling of my cave glowed with blue light. I was in a cave of snow. Pushed by the wind, I had fallen behind an outcropping of rock on the mountainside, and the snow had blown in around me to make a small room. The snow itself had saved me from freezing, and was now keeping me warm. But with only one good arm, getting out would be difficult. It took me all of that day to dig a useable tunnel, after which I spent another night in the shelter of the snow cave. Then I set out again westward.  
  
Two separate Elves claim to have found me staggering down the slopes not far north of Imladris. The first, Malaras the scout, said it was early in the afternoon near a stone bridge over a creek. The second, a hunter named Thelegil, said it was just before dusk at the top of the treeline coming into the valley. I only remember two or more strangely accented voices, saying things like, "Hai son, wai got yeh now," and "Bad braik on hehs arm, hai?" Supposedly I was carried back to the House of Elrond, but I remember nothing of it, nor of the next two days. I sat in Elrond's second-best bedroom in a fevered daze, unspeaking and unmoving, or so he tells me.  
  
He knew my name before I told him. Messengers from my father had arrived the day before I was found, having crossed the mountains and overtaken me while I was in the snow cave. It was no accident that I had been found by no fewer than two separate Elves on two separate occasions. Half the Imladren guard had been searching, not only for me but for the prestige and honour afforded him who found Oropher's errant son. The entire valley knew who I was, and where I was hiding. My father's messengers were desperate to get hold of me. But for whatever reason, Elrond would not allow them to do so.  
  
Elrond was the only one who saw me and, I suspect, the only one who knew exactly where I was being kept. He brought my meals himself (always a large, deep bowl of soup and two brown biscuits) and sat in a nearby chair while I ate, asking question after question. Sometimes he questioned me about my father, but more often he simply asked my opinion on various mundane decisions he had to make. Should he have benches or chairs in his garden? Was fish substantial enough for supper, or should it be veal? Did I think beans would grow well in partial sunlight? Should he have curtains on the window, or was the valance enough? Was the weather likely to improve in time for an outdoor gathering, or should he hold his reception inside? I always answered him truthfully and as best I could. I was afraid not to, the way he stared at me, keeping his eyes fixed on mine as if reading far too deeply into every word I said.  
  
I didn't mind living by Elrond. His questions were preferable to my father's scorn, and he at least answered in return everything I asked of him. He was not married, had no children, and had lived in the valley for over seventeen hundred years. His favourite foods were rabbit stew with onions and sunflower seed bread, he preferred coloured linens to white, liked playing the harp better than he liked practicing with swords, and always slept with many quilts even in the heat of summer because he liked the weight of them. We talked for five days. In that time he told me everything about himself that I wanted to know. But on the morning of the sixth day, he told me of the messengers waiting impatiently to return me to Eryn Galen. He did not ask me if I wanted to go with them, but informed me that as I was now fit enough to travel, even with my arm still in a sling, I would be leaving the next day. "It's taim yeh were on yehr wai, Tharandoel," he said. The Imladrim, I had noticed, always pronounce their vowels in such a way that indicates they have no control over their mouths.  
  
He set my pack at the foot of the bed, filled with fresh provisions and newly washed and mended clothes, and gave me a small smile. Then he left. Whether it was his intention that I should sneak away on my own or not, the opportunity was well marked. I waited only as long as I could bear before dressing, snatching up my things, and making as quick an exit as I could. My room had a balcony, and the balcony had a narrow stair that led down to a path, which ran into the forest behind the house. I was out of sight within minutes. All the way, I could't help but think to myself that even if it had not been Elrond's specific intent for me to escape, he would hardly be surprised when he returned to my room the next morning to find me gone.  
  
The land west of Imladris proved little trouble after my ordeal in the mountains. A problem lay in that I had no idea where I was, where I was going, or which landmarks I should seek. I had no map. But logically, I remembered two things. One, that rivers always flow down from mountains and generally end up in the sea, which lay westward. Two, Mithlond had been built at the western mouth of a river. Therefore I managed to convince myself that if I kept following the river out of Imladris, it would eventually lead me to Círdan. I walked along the riverbank, paying little attention to anything else.  
  
Had I ever learned to tell direction by the stars, I might have noticed that I was heading very far south instead of straight west. But in Eryn Galen, under the thick canopy of trees, astral navigation is a curious but ultimately useless science. As it stood, all the sense of direction I had outside of the woods was that the sun set in the west, and that if I pointed myself toward the setting sun, I would stay on course. On course in a very liberal sense. By following the river, which pointed westward enough for my tastes, my goal of reaching the sea was ultimately accomplished. I lost track of the days I spent walking, but true to my guess, I did find the mouth of that river and the Great Sea into which it spilled. Mithlond, however, was nowhere to be seen. Nor was any other Elven civilisation. As far as I could see, there was nothing.  
  
For the first time since setting off on my journey, I felt very alone. I had come to my goal, and now I had no purpose. I don't remember ever thinking of what I'd do once I reached the sea. Even if I had found Círdan, what would I have done? Built a hut on the sand and become a hermit fisher? Not only did I feel alone, but also stupid. I didn't know how to build a hut on the sand, or even fish for that matter. I knew nothing of how to live outside a forest. There were little aspen and birch bluffs near the beaches, but that was hardly the same. It took me a very short time to realise how much I longed for the safe comfort of Eryn Galen. My father's caves, even complete with my father's scowling face, were a haven compared to the beaches of bare, wind-whipped sand.  



	3. Coanya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of the Second Age, Thranduil is forced to come to terms with his own worth. He leaves Eryn Galen behind, sets out west, and learns more in one year away than in forty-nine at home.

I think I slept in the aspen bluff that first night. By the second night I had at least sufficiently scolded myself into trying to establish some sort of hut. This was my new home, I told myself sternly, and I would have to learn to adapt to it. I would not bend and return to my father. But the first hut I made, a conical monstrosity, fell apart the moment I attempted to drape my spare cloak over its crooked frame. I gave up on that idea and fell back to making the type of shelter I knew, which was little more than a low tent. The second hut, which I cleverly thought to tie together with beach grass, lasted through the night and up to the next morning when I accidentally knocked it over trying to crawl through the too-small door. I slept in the little tent for several nights after that.  
  
I never did try fishing, for the practical reason that I had no thin cord to make a line or net. But the beach attracted a large number of birds, which I could easily kill with a slingshot, so I was never wanting for food. I was, though, very much in need of a good shelter. A low tent is impractical on rainy nights as it not only leaks and allows the rain in from above, but also offers no barrier against the soggy ground below. I needed to make a hut, no matter how long it took or how many construction errors I stumbled across. One with a floor, walls, and a roof, and, if possible, a closing door. It had to be near the river to easily haul fresh water. And I had to make a stone fire pit for cooking.  
  
Four trees in an aspen bluff stood in a small square-shape, and I chose these to be the corner pillars of my walls. I cleared the ground that would be within the walls before laying a floor foundation of flat-sided rocks I found on the river beach. This floor was uneven and rough, but it would do. Next I tied four long poles, made from fallen trees, across my corner pillars at ceiling-height. I tied lighter branches across these, and that made up my roof frame. Each piece had been notched to help it stay in place. The walls were trickier for me, having no nails to firmly fasten the upright poles, but notches in the wood and bonds of twisted beach grass worked to keep everything in place. I made only three and a half walls, keeping half of the south-facing wall open as a doorway. Then I built up a footing of rocks around the outer bottom of the walls, covered the roof in leafy branches and thatches of grass, and plastered the walls with a mixture of grass and clay hauled from the river.  
  
This hut took six days to complete, and in the end looked no better than a play fort built by children. But I could keep working at it and making small improvements. I wove flat reeds into mats for the stone floor, and also into mats for the outer walls when I learned that rain quickly turns clay into mud. I made a door out of a hanging grass curtain. My travelling pack, now empty, was converted into a pillow when stuffed with feathers from the sea birds I killed. The birds also came in useful when I learned I could use strips of their plucked skin to tie together the poles and branches that made up my hut. While it sometimes tore, the bird skin was still stronger and more durable than grass.  
  
I made frivolous decorations out of feathers, shells, and small stones. My grass curtain became so adorned with these little trinkets that it rattled in the wind. I made a thick pile of grass mats to sleep on, adding a fresh layer whenever the top one became too dry. None of it was perfect, or even much good, but it was the best I could do. Often I wondered if the first Elves who awoke under the stars were as unskilled as I in their creations. Sometimes it was comforting to imagine that my forefathers had as much trouble with uncooperative unravelling mats as I did, but other times it only made me more frustrated to think that after how many tens of thousands of years of evolution, an Elf still couldn't get his bed to stay in one piece.  
  
But for however much I learned, and however much I improved in my simple skills, the one thing I missed above all was fabric. Grass makes insubstantial bedding and uncomfortable clothes. My own clothes, which had been new when I left in the early spring, were worn out and ripped by the end of a summer filled with travel and experimental labour on my hut. I could not fix them, nor could I make anything new. I attempted one birdskin cloak (feathers still attached), but quickly abandoned that idea. I could try to hunt for deer in the surrounding fields, but I didn't know how to tan hides.  
  
This lack of clothing was a small enough problem in the summer and early fall, when I could go as naked as my modesty allowed. But every passing day brought longer nights and colder winds, and a thicker covering of dry brown leaves on the ground around my hut. Winter would come. I did not know how to prepare for it. Winter in Eryn Galen had always been an ordeal of snow deep enough to bury small trees and temperatures cold enough to freeze skin in minutes. But there, at least, it had always been dry, and the cold was fended off so long as one wore adequate clothing. The cold creeping in around my seaside hut was different: a heavy, wet cold. It clung to the air and seeped in through my thin cloaks to make my skin clammy and damp. Instead of snow, there was rain. It took only one night of shivering in my soggy grass bed to convince me that I needed to find better shelter, hopefully in the form of a house in a town or city, before the miserable, wet fall ended and the miserable, wet winter began.


	4. Sermonya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of the Second Age, Thranduil is forced to come to terms with his own worth. He leaves Eryn Galen behind, sets out west, and learns more in one year away than in forty-nine at home.

I left my hut on the next sunny day that came along. I pulled the feathers out of my pack and filled it with dried meat and all the roots, berries, and edible plants I had gathered. All the clothes I had left I wore, tattered as they were, and I rolled up the best grass mats to take with me. I also took my shell and feather trinkets. After everything was packed, my hut looked empty. A pile of feathers and falling-apart grass mats was all I had to leave as evidence of my life here. I didn't like to think of what would happen to it after I was gone. Maybe a group of children would find it and use it to play, or it would become a haven for mice. Or maybe, more likely, it would fall apart over the winter without me there to constantly fix broken branches. Whatever the case, I never went back to find out.  
  
I had realised by this time that I had come too far south on my journey from Imladris. Mithlond, then, lay up the coast to the north. How far north, I didn't know, but I walked on the assumption that I would eventually find my way. I would walk all day and into the night, then sleep for a few hours in my makeshift tent before waking and walking again. Day after day I repeated the cycle. Very slowly, the land changed. Plains became forests and then plains again, and beaches turned into sharp cliffs overlooking the waves before settling back down into beaches. Sandy shores became rocky. Evergreen trees began to turn up amid brown, leafless branches. The air became colder but no less wet. But still, even after travelling for so many days that I was certain I would soon reach the uttermost North of the world, I did not find Mithlond.  
  
What I did find was Conufin. I was walking north along the beach, swinging my pack and singing to myself some silly childish song to pass the time. He was coming south. Even from far off I could see he was an Elf; the way he walked showed it plainly. An Elf, I immediately thought, of Mithlond. One of Círdan's folk. The thought made my heart jump. I had seen no-one since I left Elrond's house, and the sight of this traveller was a sharp reminder of just how alone I had been for the past seasons. More than anything, I suddenly longed to speak with him. I longed to hear words spoken in a voice other than my own. I wanted to be reminded of the civility of language.  
  
We walked forward, toward each other, until we stood face to face, or face to shoulder rather, since he was a good head taller than I. I looked at him: his expressionless face, flat black hair, and soft grey eyes. He looked back at me. I ran a hand over my hair. It was tangled and dirty, full of sand and unplaited. He wore clothes made of pale leather, sandy at the knees but otherwise clean. My clothes, and the two cloaks thrown carelessly around my shoulders, were little more than dirty rags. He gave me a small smile, wordlessly understanding my position, and motioned for me to follow him. I followed him down the beach a ways before he turned up into the forest, following a path I had failed to see before. "Are you from Mithlond?" I asked. He shook his head "no," and offered no further information.  
  
I followed him silently down his winding path to a small cabin that was so well-concealed in a leafy glen that from an arm's length away it appeared to be no more than a tangle of close-growing trees. It was one room made of thick logs with a stone fireplace in one corner. Everything: floor, walls, bed and benches, was covered in furs. My host motioned for me to sit on one of the benches, and he knelt down to start a fire in the small hearth before turning back to pay me any attention.  
  
"Where do you come from?" he asked. I was surprised by his voice. It was smooth as glass, hardly fitting his rough forest life and half-wild look. And his words too surprised me. He spoke perfectly, in a clipped North Thindren accent so similar to my father's that I must have stared in disbelief.  
  
I answered him, "Eryn Galen. Far in the east."  
  
"Family from the North, bordering river Sirion," he stated, more to himself than to me.  
  
"That's where my father comes from, yes," I said. He nodded. "My name is Thranduil," I added.  
  
"Conufin," he said.  
  
"That's a Golodhren name," I said somewhat stupidly, since it was plain to tell from his looks that he was one of the Golodhrim. But he made me nervous and I couldn't think of anything better at the time.  
  
He smiled at me, saying nothing, encouraging me to keep speaking. Whatever information Elrond could weasel out of me through his incessant questioning, Conufin could extract with a simple glance. By the time his fire began to die I had related to him my entire history, with special emphasis on the events of the past few seasons. He listened with the limited interest of one who knew nothing of my father, let alone Eryn Galen. The distance was liberating. When I had finished, Conufin smiled at me for a story well told, then leaned back on his heels and stared up at the fur-covered ceiling.  
  
"Oropher," he muttered, as if exploring the word. "Oroferno."  
  
I startled at that. "What did you call him?" I asked.  
  
He would not repeat the word, nor would he look at me.  
  
"You said 'Oroferno'. Where did you hear that?"  
  
"I didn't hear it," he said. "I made it up."  
  
"You didn't," I said, feeling a touch of anger. "That's my mother's name for him. She made it up. That's what she calls him." Or what she used to call him, those few times they spoke affectionately in front of me.  
  
He looked at me then. "Your mother speaks my language?"  
  
'Lambë Noldoliéva' he called it, the Language of the Golodhrim, and after I begged to hear he spoke to me a few simple words: quendi, alda, elen, coa, ondo, nárë. I didn't know what any of it meant, but he spoke in this beautiful language like a song. I could have listened to him name things around the cabin all night. When he paused, I asked him to teach me. I wanted to know these sparkling words and treasure them as my own. He looked at me, laughed, and said he would teach me anything I wanted to know. Never before had anyone wanted to learn his language. It would be something new to try.  
  
That night he let me sleep in his bed, but only after combing the sand and tangles out of my hair with a straw brush. He had made a real feather mattress in a log frame, and a good pillow, and his blankets were thick warm furs. Compared to my dry grass mats, this was luxury on par with my old bedroom in Eryn Galen. As soon as I lay down I felt as if I could sleep for days in that soft warm bed. I looked at Conufin, who sat on a bench by the nearly-dead fire, huddled in a fur so large it had to be bear. I was honestly too comfortable to be overly concerned about him giving up his own comfort for my sake. He was still in the same place when I awoke, though the fur was in a crumpled crescent around his feet and he was frying strips of meat in a small pan over the fire. The smell made my mouth water.  
  
I dressed quickly before eating, sorry to leave the warmth of the fur blankets. My clothes seemed even thinner and more worn than usual. Conufin stared at me as we ate, seeming to note every last tear, fray, and stain that I wore. "How long do you want to stay here?" he asked.  
  
"As long as I can," I said. "I won't go back to my father."  
  
"Then we will need to make you new clothes," he said with a nod.  
  
We spent the day measuring and cutting leather. He showed me how to punch a series of holes for every seam with a small sharp tool, and how to stitch pieces together with long strips of lacing. By nightfall I had new breeches and a large fur cloak. The next day we made a tunic, and the third, shoes. Often Conufin would leave me alone to work at the stitching while he went off to haul water or check his traps. He always made me help with the cooking, though. I would slice the meat and wash mushrooms while he stirred the broth for soup or stew and experimented with just the right blend from his collection of seasonings. The result was always a welcome change from my simplistic sea bird roasted on a stick over the fire.  
  
Winter with Conufin passed in a series of routines. We would go out in the morning to check the traps, then, if the weather was good, spend some time fishing in the creek that ran nearby. When the weather was poor, we stayed in the cabin, sharpening or repairing tools and making new arrows. Sometimes we began new projects, such as making a bed frame for me and starting a collection of feathers for a new mattress. We talked all the time. I told him everything about me, and he told me nothing about him. In the beginning I would press him to share anything of his own history, but he always turned suddenly silent, so I stopped asking. The only thing he would share freely with me was his beautiful language. Every evening he taught me new words or phrases of his Lambë Noldoliéva, which I took in greedily. That was always my favourite part of the day.  
  
Little changed as the days became longer. The snow, if patchy grey slush can really be called such, gave way to rain, and birds returned to the north, but our routine remained the same. Occasionally I caught Conufin staring up at the stars after I had gone to bed, or at the midday sun as we worked. He had drawn a calendar on the hearth stones with a charred branch, but I couldn't read or understand it. Every day he would add a new mark to the circle. Then, on one rainy morning, he sat next to me and said, "It is the first day of spring. You are fifty years old today." I hadn't even thought of it.  
  
"You are no longer a child," he continued. "At fifty years old, one becomes an adult in the eyes of the Eldalië." He paused, then added, "You should be with your family."  
  
"I have no family any more," I said. "Just you."  
  
"They will be thinking of you today," said Conufin. He leaned in closer, placed his hand on my shoulder, and kissed my cheek.  
  
One simple kiss, out of nothing more than friendship, and the feel of it sent a shiver through my entire body. My cheek tingled where his lips had touched. I turned to look at him, to question the meaning of this kiss, but he had already stood and was heading across the room to the open door. "Come on," he said over his shoulder. "I will show you something."  
  
I followed him out into the rainy forest, holding my cloak over my head to keep dry. He seemed to either not notice the rain or not care about it. We followed the creek up into the hills away from the beach, keeping to a narrow rocky path, and walked until the clouded sun was high overhead. When we finally stopped we were in a clearing beneath the boughs of mossy trees so tall they must have been three times or more the height of the trees surrounding the cabin, and so large that Conufin and I together couldn't have wrapped our arms around a trunk. At the far side of the clearing was a pool fed by a trickling waterfall. All the snow was gone from this place and the ground had just started to sprout tiny pink flowers, the first of the season.  
  
"I thought we would eat here," Conufin said, "in honour of your great day." I nodded in agreement, still too busy taking in the sight of everything in the clearing to speak. He laid one of his large bear skins on the wet ground, and set down pouches of dried meat, mushrooms, fish, and fresh berries. We sat opposite each other to eat, he paying all his attention to the food, and I watching him as closely as I could without attracting notice. He ate slowly but with dedicated alertness, just like he did everything else in his life. He carefully inspected every piece of food before putting it into his mouth. I swallowed everything absently, scarcely paying attention to what I was doing for fear of missing some special clue hidden in his actions. In the short time that had passed since the kiss that morning, Conufin had suddenly become the most fascinating mystery I had ever encountered. I needed to solve him. Briefly, I wondered whether or not I was stupid for even considering what I was considering, but since the logical part of my mind has never had much of a chance when in direct competition with the frivolous part, I didn't really care.  
  
I made a mental list of all the things I knew or guessed about Conufin. He was old, probably older than my father, and must have come from the same place in the First Age. He had lived by himself for a long time. His cabin wasn't very old, so he must have moved from place to place frequently. He was highly skilled in all aspects of living on his own. He probably didn't like others very much, or else he would live nearer the city. He didn't like anybody knowing anything about him. That was all. I knew nothing of his family or his past, and could never hope to guess what he thought or felt. He guarded himself far to carefully to let anything slip, as if everything about him was a terrible secret I could never learn.  
  
I almost saw a crack in his wall that day after had finished eating. The rain had stopped and we were sitting on the fur as he told me his words for new things we saw (nendë, celussë, lotsë) and I watched the fluid movements of his hands and lips. He paused a moment, looking up to the treetops, and I followed his gaze. Two birds were playing: chasing each other, whirling and diving. They flew down to the pool to splash along the shallow edges, singing as they did. Conufin grinned to watch them. Then he laughed, a rich, pure laugh of joy, not his usual weary or uncertain laugh. I couldn't help but laugh with him. "Birds love to play," he said.  
  
"Aiwer melir tyalë," I replied automatically.  
  
He turned his shining smile to me then. "You are a good student."  



	5. Meldonya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of the Second Age, Thranduil is forced to come to terms with his own worth. He leaves Eryn Galen behind, sets out west, and learns more in one year away than in forty-nine at home.

Conufin must have noticed my obsession. It would have been impossible not to, the way I stood too close when I was near him and made excuses to be near him when I should have been elsewhere. I lay awake at night to watch him sleeping, and woke up early just so I could follow him around each minute of the day and get in his way at every opportunity. I made certain to accidentally brush my fingers against his whenever he handed me a dish or tool. I touched his shoulder or arm whenever I had to walk past. Most of all, I stared at him as often as I could. But, in his usual masked manner, he hid all reactions to my odd behaviour and gave no sign that anything had changed.  
  
Sometimes I caught him staring back at me. Never in the same way I stared at him, with my unwavering adoration and sparking lust; he always looked more thoughtful when he observed me, as if he could read every thought that crossed my mind. Maybe he could. My father once told me that the Elves of the West had the ability to read thoughts and speak with their minds. Galadriel of Lothlórien could do it; likely Conufin could too. Therefore whenever Conufin stared at me I tried my best to hide my shameful thoughts, and blushed at the possibility of him discovering my desires. I wondered what he would do if he found out. Though sometimes I did wish he would read that thought in my mind, saving me the embarrassment of eventually having to tell him myself.  
  
I wondered at the likelihood of him ever thinking of me in such a way. Small, I knew, but it excited me just to consider it. Sometimes I let my imagination run wild, exploring impossible scenarios in which the two of us were always together. Sometimes I held myself back, certain that every silly fantasy chipped away at the possibility of ever having such a relationship for real. And sometimes I wondered what was stopping me from reaching out to touch his hair, or caress his face, when he sat beside me so close that it was painful not to do so. Inhibitions are evil, terrible things, as is common courtesy. Cowardice is no help either.  
  
The worst times were those when we would go swimming in the sea. Conufin would strip off his clothes and stand before me, naked except for the fingerless leather gloves he always wore, expectantly waiting for me to do the same and join him. More often than not, my body refused to cooperate with the situation and I was forced to make excuses as to why I could not remove my breeches just then. I usually watched him for some time before daring to join. But the situation turned better once I actually made it into the water, which was so frigidly cold that all untoward thoughts immediately perished. Then I was too busy shivering to be able to consider all the animal things I wanted to do with Conufin, whose sea-splashed naked body was a constant hazard to my sanity.   
  
He would always swim out far from shore while I, who had never had to swim more than a few feet across a river and had never fully acquired the skill, never went in any deeper than up to my chest. I would walk out as far as I dared, bobbing up and down with the waves and amusing myself by picking up smooth rocks from the sea bed with my toes until he came back in. I occasionally tried to swim back to the beach instead of walk, but always panicked and touched my feet to the bottom to make sure I was still safe. Once though, when Conufin was swimming not far from me and straight to my left, I reasoned that I should be able to swim out to him while still staying the same distance from shore and in the shallower water. I swam a few arm's lengths before going to touch my feet down in assurance only to find no sandy rocks beneath me. With a startled shout I went under, more out of surprise than real lack of swimming skill, and by the time I managed to thrash my way back to the surface, Conufin was there beside me. He hooked his arm under mine and pulled both of us back to the shallows, making sure I was standing on my own before letting go.  
  
I gulped in as much air as I could, suddenly aware of how cold I was. I stepped nearer to Conufin and held onto his arm. Then, in a rare moment when impulse outweighed both common sense and the freezing sea water, I wrapped my arms around his waist and buried my face against his shoulder. He flinched, but didn't step back or pull away.  
  
"Are you alright?" he asked.  
  
"No," I said. "Wait, yes. I think so."  
  
"You need to be careful swimming in the sea," he said. "The bottom can drop away in a sheer cliff at any time, and if you can't swim-"  
  
"I can swim," I interrupted, then added to myself, 'Just not very well.'  
  
We stood silently together with me clinging to him for several long moments before he tried to step back. I held my grip on him. I never wanted to let go, now that I had him so close and trapped in my arms.  
  
"We should go back to the shore," he said. I nodded in agreement, but made no move to release him. Instead, I looked up at his eyes. He stared straight back at me, as unreadable as ever. I could only hold his gaze for a few short seconds before looking away. "Thranduil..." he said softly.  
  
"Shut up," I told him. "I don't want to talk right now." I only wanted to concentrate on being close to him.  
  
"Alright." He lifted his arms out of the water and wrapped them around my back. I was shivering as the cold spring wind blew against my wet hair and skin, but I felt warm wherever he touched me. I laid my head back against his shoulder. He turned toward me, tilting his face down, and once again kissed me on the cheek. His lips lingered against my skin.  
  
Before he could pull away, I lifted my hand to cup his cheek and keep him from moving back. Then, unhindered by any sort of concern for the consequences, I kissed him back. I pressed my lips to his and tasted the salt water on his skin. He hissed in surprise, but I didn't let go. I slid my hand around to the back of his neck and held him close. I kissed him like I had imagined kissing him on all those nights when I let my mind wander in secrecy. If this turned out to be the only chance I had, I wanted to do it well. I only stopped kissing him when he reached up to hold my face in his leather-gloved hands.  
  
I pulled away, just far enough to see his gloves, and took one of his hands in mine. I twined my fingers through his. "Why do you wear these?" I asked.  
  
"Habit," he said. Now that I was no longer keeping him held close, he stepped back and looked toward the beach. "We should get back to shore."  
  
I nodded and followed along after him as he led us to the beach, keeping firm hold on his hand. When we reached the shore I pulled him close again to kiss his shoulder, neck, and cheek. He accepted the first kisses, but then shook his head, saying, "Not here."  
  
"You want to go back to the cabin?" I asked. He nodded in reply. We dressed quickly, glad to be covered again in the quickening wind, and wrung out our wet hair. I took his hand again as we walked back to the cabin. He seemed in a hurry to get back, walking faster and faster until I nearly had to run to keep up with him. But once we were inside, his urgency faded. He shut the door behind us and went to the hearth to start a fire. I sat on the edge of his bed, shivering from the cold or my nerves, unsure of what to do. I waited for any signal from him.  
  
He did nothing. Once the fire was started, he sat on his bench and watched it burn. He didn't turn to me, or glance at me, or speak to me, even though my heart was pounding and my stomach churned in anticipation. I wanted to touch him again, kiss him, lay beside him in his bed and feel his body close to mine. I wanted him to touch me, and kiss me. But he only sat silently by the fire with his back turned. With every slow moment that passed, my anticipation turned to dread that I had made a grand mistake and, as I should have expected, he had no desire to be with me as I longed to be with him.  
  
When I could stand it no longer, I spoke. "Conufin... will you sit with me?"  
  
He glanced quickly at me over his shoulder. "You may sit here," he said, and motioned to the space beside him on the bench. I got up and sat there with him, close enough that our shoulders touched. He continued staring at the fire. But he was not silent, I noticed. Quietly, nearly quiet enough to be inaudible, he was whispering to himself. I could only catch a fraction of the words, the Thindren words. Other words were in his language. He was holding a debate with himself, two voices arguing with each other, one in one language and one in the other. He spoke too quickly and too quietly for me to understand the argument.  
  
I leaned over to rest my head on his shoulder, and the argument stopped. "I love you," I said. I don't think I meant to say it out loud, but I did.  
  
He paused for a long, silent while before answering, "No you don't."  
  
"I do," I said. I turned to look at him, wishing he would look back at me. "I do love you."  
  
"Why?" he asked.  
  
I couldn't think of any answer. "I don't know. I just do. Maybe because..." I tried to think of any reason for why I loved Conufin the way I did, but my mind was blank. There was no 'why' to my love. It only existed, simple as that. "I don't know why," I repeated. He turned to look at me then, smiling softly. I couldn't tell whether he was sincere in his smile or amused at my lack of an answer. "You don't believe me."  
  
"You do not know what you think you love," he said, but something in the way he said it gave me hope. He did not shun me or tell me I was stupid for loving him. He seemed to accept it, as he so easily accepted everything else about me.  
  
"I would like to know you better," I told him.  
  
He accepted this too, and rested his hand on my arm. I almost fell against him in my eagerness to pull him into an embrace, but he held me steady. I rested my head on his chest as I had in the water, and he stroked my damp hair. I didn't dare ask if he loved me in return. I feared the answer too much. I was content to imagine that he did, even if that wasn't the entire truth. As long as he was with me, the fine details didn't matter.  
  
We spent the night in his bed together, though fully clothed, with my arms clinging around his neck and his hands resting firmly on my back. In the morning, I asked him again about his gloves. "Show me your hands," I said.  
  
"Why should you want to see?" he asked.  
  
"Because everything about you is a mystery. It's all secret. I want to know everything about you, all those things you keep hidden from me, and I want to start with your gloves." He went silent. "You know everything about me," I pressed. "I willingly tell every secret of my life to you, anything you ask. Please, can't you show me this one thing?"  
  
After a moment of silence, without breaking eye contact, he lifted his hands and began to undo the lacing that held his gloves together. He removed one, then the other, then turned his palms toward me. The skin had been badly burned. It was white and red, deeply scarred and blistered, and the way he held his hands showed that the burn still pained him even though it was many years old. I gasped at the sight of it and asked, "What happened to you?" He pulled his gloves back on, lacing them tightly before he spoke again.  
  
"Thranduil," he said, "if I tell you the story of how my hands became burned, I must tell you the entire story, and it is long. Afterward you might well rethink your feelings for me. What do you know of the history of the Noldolië?"  
  
I knew next to nothing and I told Conufin as much. My father considered the Golodhrim to be useless in his vision of leadership, and paid little or no attention to them and their existence. All I had been taught was that they had returned from the West at the dawn of the First Age to win back a set of jewels called Silevril that had been stolen by Morgoth. One Silevril had been reclaimed by Beren and Lúthien. I knew that story well, but it was all the First Age history I had been taught. I remembered the name Fingolfin as one of their kings, but where he lived and when, I couldn't have said.  
  
"My hands were burned by a Silmaril," Conufin said. "I tried to claim it as my own without right, and it burned me. They were sacred jewels, and I was cursed. I could not stand to hold it. So I threw it into the sea."  
  
"Why did you try to take it?" I asked.  
  
He smiled sadly, clasping his hands together as if the memory caused him great pain. "My name in my language is Canafinwë Macalaurë, which becomes Conufin Maglor in yours. When I lived in Beleriand in the First Age I was called Maglor, but I have not used that name since. Fëanor was my father."  
  
I nodded, listening intently to his introduction, a secret thrill coursing through my body at finally being able to learn something of Conufin's past. "Who was Fëanor?" I asked.  
  
His eyes widened in surprise at that question. "You do not know?"  
  
"No," I said. I had not heard the name of Faenor until that day. My father never spoke it, nor my mother, and certainly none of the old Iathrim (for good reasons, I later learned).  
  
Conufin began to laugh, a joyful, happy laugh that I knew was not in mockery of my ignorance, but rather out of delight and surprise that I was yet untainted by the bias of history. "I see," he said, "that I will have to start from the very beginning."  
  
Over three days, he told me the story of Faenor's life and his own. He told me plainly what happened at Alqualondë, and Doriath, and Avernien. He told me how he had taken part. After each of those terrible tales he looked at me, certain that he would find fiery hatred in my eyes, but after each I said, "It's in the past. I don't care."  
  
"You should care," he said. "They were your kin."  
  
"Yes, but hating you for it now won't change anything."  
  
I didn't want to hate him; I couldn't. No matter how much he told, or how horrible the stories, I refused to pull myself away. Partly I refused to believe that he could have done those things. I did believe, though, that he carried a painfully deep sorrow over what he had done. He hated himself on a level that I could never match.  
  
"Conufin..."  
  
"Maglor," he said. "Call me Maglor. That was always my name, though it carries a great burden. I won't hide it from you any longer."  
  
"Maglor." I tested the name, feeling the shape and sound of it. It suited him. He looked more like Maglor than Conufin, if such a thing is possible to notice. He had changed before my eyes, from simple Conufin of the woods to great Maglor of history, the legendary figure of tales so distant from my life that they could just as easily have been fiction as truth. But he also seemed to grow smaller, his shoulders stooped and his back bent, as if sharing this secret with me stole a part of his strength. He looked tired.  
  
"Maglor," I repeated. "Macalaurë." I slid my arms around his shoulders and pulled him against me. He let me hold him, exhausted as he was from countless years of keeping himself carefully hidden from the affections of others, and let me stroke his hair and caress his face. "I still love you," I whispered close to his ear. He nodded weakly. Whether he agreed with that or not, he allowed it. He allowed me to kiss his ear and his cheek, his mouth and neck, and allowed me to pull him down onto the bed beside me as I kissed him. I removed his clothes, and mine. He never objected, nor did he give me any sign of approval, save once when he cautiously reached up to touch my hair with his shaking, burnt hand. I could tell in that one touch that he needed this as terribly as I did, though he wouldn't take it. He had recklessly taken too many things in his life.  
  
I had never made love before, or even considered it, and that time with Maglor was my first. Without much guidance from him, it was haltingly awkward. I knew what to do, as the act itself had been described to me on more than one occasion by a group of my father's guards who thought it was good fun to tell me such things. I'm sure the look of unabashed horror on my face as I tried to imagine why any sane Elf would want to do that only encouraged them. Now with Maglor that why was answered, even if the how required some practice. But for however little I knew, I could let my certain body take over for my uncertain mind, and follow my desires. I thrust into him with all the strength and passion I had until I came with such a shock of pleasure that I bit down hard on my lip to keep from crying out. And I stroked his shaft until I felt his body clench as he finished and he spilled onto my hand.  
  
After that we didn't speak or move until morning. I lay beside him, my arm falling possessively over his chest and his hand resting on my hip. I slept on and off, but I don't know if he slept at all. Whenever I looked at him, his eyes were far away in thought. Fearing the answer, I never asked what he was thinking.


	6. Entulessenya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of the Second Age, Thranduil is forced to come to terms with his own worth. He leaves Eryn Galen behind, sets out west, and learns more in one year away than in forty-nine at home.

That first night came in the middle of summer. From that night on, I called Maglor my lover. Whether he would have used the same word for me, I never knew. I still couldn't bring myself to ask him how he felt. Occasionally a sliver of affection would sneak through his guarded mannerisms, and then he would take my hand or touch my cheek, always as delicately as if I were made of spider silk. Occasionally his eyes would spark with passion. But for the most part, he kept his mind and desires hidden.  
  
At the end of the summer we set out for Mithlond. Maglor gathered together a bundle of furs to sell or trade for items he could not make himself. We took a path heading north and walked for two days, reaching the edge of the city on the morning of the third. Even from a distance it was a wonder to behold. Never before had I seen such towers, shimmering in the sun and crowned with regal banners, standing tall and proud as they looked out over the clear blue sea. This shining stone harbour easily surpassed my father's palace and even Imladris in beauty. Each tall building and curving street had been expertly crafted down to the last details of decorative pearls and shells, more perfect than dreams. I was both awed by the sights and distressed that my father hadn't the sense to live in such a glorious place instead of his cold, dark forest.  
  
I can only imagine how I must've looked to the citizens of Mithlond, staring and gaping as I was while dressed in animal skins. I'm sure I only served to reinforce the western stereotype of the wild, uncultured forest Elf from the east. At the inn where I sat while waiting for Maglor to sell his furs, the tailor I spoke with nodded understandingly when I told him I came from Eryn Galen.  
  
I talked with several Elves at the inn while I waited for Maglor. They spoke just as strangely as Elrond's folk, with only subtle differences in the accent. Only a few of them could say 'Thranduil' properly. The tailor pressed me for news of Eryn Galen, wanting to know if we would be joining the war. I told him the King had not yet made a decision, which was correct for all I knew. He insisted that I petition in favour of war when I returned home, as Gil-galad needed all the reinforcements he could find and the rumour going around was that Oropher commanded an army strong enough to take down Barad-dûr on its own. I couldn't bring myself to tell him that both the size army and the possibility of Oropher helping Gil-galad were wishful thinking. Nor could I tell him that Oropher was my father.  
  
The other three sitting at the tailor's table, a blacksmith, a merchant, and a farmer, drank their wine in bleak silence. "War's ged as den before ait starts," the blacksmith said after a minute, "If Orepher's owt and Amdair cain't maik ep hehs maind."  
  
"Why go to war, then?" I asked.  
  
The tailor looked at me in shock. "Don't yeh know? Sauron's ep in the sowth, ready teh declair war on es! Wai naid teh ect before hai des!"  
  
"King's got en airmy," said farmer, "bet it's not enef. Teh maneh daid in the last war en Eregeon."  
  
The four went quiet again after that. I didn't ask how many had died, or when this war took place. It had clearly affected all of them. I drank my wine, which the tailor had been kind enough to buy me, and stared down at a crack in the table.  
  
Maglor didn't return until evening. By that time the tailor and the others had left, and I was alone with my last few drops of wine when he came in to stand beside me.  
  
"I have a room here for tonight," Maglor said. "Up the stairs, second on the left. You can come now or join me later."  
  
"You don't want to stay here for a drink of wine or some food?" I asked.  
  
He glanced around the room. Some of those who sat around the inn stared openly, while others more discreetly flitted their eyes toward him, only looking for a second. "No," he said softly. "I'll be upstairs." He left as quickly as he had come.  
  
Even after he'd gone I could feel the eyes on me from all directions. It made me uncomfortable, though also far more understanding of why Maglor preferred to be alone. Whether these Elves knew who he was or not, they treated him with suspicion and a measure of hostility. It was no wonder he kept himself so hidden when he knew to always expect the worst. I began to feel the same way, the longer the eyes of the room stayed locked on me. I stayed only a short time after he left.   
  
Maglor was already in bed when I opened the bedroom door. He had made no fire to warm the room, but I didn't care. I stripped off my clothes and lay down beside him, tucking the blankets around our bodies and wrapping my arm around his chest. After the tension downstairs I had such a need to be close to him, as if to in some way prove my loyalty and love. If I needed him then I was certain that he needed me just as much. I kissed his hair and his ear, and rested my cheek against his neck so I could breathe in the scent of his skin. I ran my hand over his chest and stomach, feeling his smooth body grow hot beneath my touches. I stroked his shaft until he was hard in my grip. And I made love to him, keeping him as close as I could manage, moving as slowly as I could bear. When it was over he turned to face me, whispering word in his language too soft to hear, and pressing his lips to my cheek with his delicate spider silk kisses. I held him tightly all through that night and well into the morning.  
  
I was the first to move when the sun shone brightly through the bedroom curtains. I sat up on the edge of the bed, looking down at him as he still lay on his side. A thought nagged at the back of my mind. The longer I sat, and the longer I tried to reconcile it, the stronger it grew. It became a churn in my stomach, a shake in my hand, and a fear in my heart. I couldn't push it back any better than I could make it disappear entirely. Heavily, I lay back down.  
  
"Maglor," I said.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"I have to go."  
  
He frowned as he looked at me. "Go?"  
  
"Back to Eryn Galen."  
  
This time he sat up, looking down at me. "You want to go back to your father."  
  
"It's not that," I said. "It's-"  
  
"The war." He smiled sadly.  
  
I sat up beside him, resting my hands on his knees and leaning forward. "I have to go back," I said. "Yesterday downstairs, the way they were talking... Gil-galad's army alone can't take on Mordor, even joined with the Men of Gondor and Arnor. The army of Eryn Galen isn't vast, but it's substantial. My father can help, though I know he would never agree to it on his own. I need to make him see the severity of the situation."  
  
Maglor said nothing, but nodded slowly.  
  
"I don't want to leave you," I continued, quieter than before. I moved one of my hands to his wrist. "But if I don't go..."  
  
"Thranduil," he said, "you are a prince of your people. One day you will be their king. You have a duty to those people that you must follow regardless of your personal wishes, and once you are called to that duty you cannot put it aside. My brothers and I made that mistake long ago when we ranked our own revenge above the lives of those we led. I won't see you cursed and ruined as I am when you have the ability to be so great."  
  
"I know," I said, choking on the words as I fell onto him, weeping, already feeling the sharp sorrow of my loss even though he held me still. "I'll come back to find you," I managed somehow to say, "after the war." He kissed my forehead in reply, and held me tighter. I think he knew I never would.  
  
"A good king cares for his people," said Maglor. "But he also cares for those in other realms, considering not only what is good for his own land, but what is good for the world. He knows his duty to all. One day you will be a good king, Thranduil, if you rule by what your heart and mind tell you is right. Polilyë caritas?"  
  
"Caruvanyes alassenen," I answered, leaning up to kiss his mouth.  
  
He smiled. "You will be a great king."  
  
I saw Maglor for the last time that evening. We went to the market square and used the money he made from selling furs to buy me food for the journey home and a new travelling cloak of soft fabric. Then, after we ate a last meal of bread and cheese together, we said our farewells with a purposefully distant stiffness. I squeezed his shoulder, and he clasped my hand, and then he walked away without looking back. My entire body felt heavy as I stared after him until he disappeared around a corner. I squinted my eyes to hold back the tears and clenched my jaw to tame the lump in my throat. I stood in that spot for a long time, not wanting to move.  
  
When I could move, when I forced myself to move, I went to the eastern edge of the city. There was a road that went from Mithlond to Imladris nearly in a direct line, and was often used by Gil-galad's soldiers. I was fortunate to be travelling when I was. Every day more soldiers were sent eastward along that road, and I was allowed to travel with a group of them. They let me sleep at their camps and eat around their fires, and even gave me a cup of wine from time to time. They treated me well when I told them I was an emissary to Eryn Galen, on my way to convince King Oropher to join in the war effort. I was treated even better when we reached Imladris, where the captains gave me rings and jewels and other tokens of esteem. Elrond said nothing, and only smiled in amusement as I pledged to use my best effort in my task. He never told them who I was, or how exactly I had come in a very roundabout way to be there.  
  
Several of the Imladren captains offered to accompany me back to Eryn Galen, but I turned them away. My father would be difficult to convince as it was, and having any of Elrond's folk around to add pressure would only worsen the situation. So after a brief few days' rest in Elrond's house, I set off back into the east. The mountains this time didn't seem so high, nor so cold, perhaps because I was more experienced but more likely because it was only early autumn and the snow hadn't yet come for the year. In either case, I crossed easily and came soon to the eaves of the forest, and eventually to my father's realm within.  
  
It was morning when I passed the gates, and my father was still eating breakfast. I let no-one announce me or even warn him of my presence. I walked straight into his bedroom and stood there a moment while he stared at me as if I were a ghost. I was still wearing the leather clothes that Maglor had made me, and my hair was wild and unwashed.  
  
"Good morning, father," I said.  
  
He choked on the bread he was eating and many seconds passed before he managed to say, "Thranduil."  
  
"Yes," I said, "I am Thranduil. I've come back."  
  
"Oh," he said, still coughing.  
  
I waited for him to take a sip of water before continuing. "I have news, and I need to speak with you. Will you meet me in your office?"  
  
He silently nodded yes.  
  
"Good," I said. Then I exited as unexpectedly as I had entered, shutting the door firmly behind me with a satisfying bang. As soon as I stood in the corridor I saw that my hands were shaking. Never before had I dared to speak to my father like that, standing tall before him, staring him in the eye and treating him as an equal instead of some fearsome overlord. I felt a surge of pride and grinned at myself for having the courage. I knew that if I could keep that courage through the next meeting, I would have a chance to convince him of the necessity of joining forces with the Golodhrim. I went to his office to wait.  
  
When he arrived several minutes later, he had managed to compose himself after the initial shock of seeing me as I was. He looked just as I remembered him, complete with stern eyes staring out coolly from beneath his wreath-crown of golden leaves. He sat at his desk opposite me and spoke before I had the chance to address him. "I suppose you are here to apologise for your foolishness and tell my why in the name of the Stars you ran away from home?"  
  
"No," I said.  
  
"Where did you go?" he asked.  
  
"West."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I wanted to."  
  
"What did you learn?"  
  
I licked my lips carefully before answering. "That the world is a far greater place than just your little realm in this forest," I said.  
  
He leaned back slowly in his chair, keeping his eyes tight on mine. He was beginning to look more surprised than stern. A hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Why did you come back?" he asked.  
  
"I have news." I cleared my throat and sat up straighter, not wanting to miss this opportunity to tell him every detail of what I knew about Gil-galad's war. "When I was in Mithlond-" I started, but he held up his hand to stop me.  
  
"No," He said, "I don't think that's the real reason for your return. Think carefully on this, Thranduil. Why did you come back?"  
  
That was a question I didn't expect, and it cracked my concentration. Suddenly I felt very small again, trying to think of the right answer to please him. I stumbled and stuttered over the next words I spoke. "I... No, that's... No, that is why I came back. I... I saw at Mithlond... and the soldiers. There's going to be a war. Gil-galad can't by himself and he needs-"  
  
"Think harder," my father interrupted.  
  
I fell silent. I could think of no other way to answer him. I had no idea what he expected me to say, whether he though I had some other purpose or if he simply wanted me to break down in tears and tell him I had come back for his forgiveness. I closed my mouth and stared at him stupidly.  
  
"I can tell you why," he finally said. "I know about the war. Some time ago Gil-galad sent me a letter, outlining his position and asking for my aid. Now it seems he is finally going through with his plan. You have come back to report what you have seen in the west and tell me I should agree to his request. That you carry no letter tells me that you come of your own will."  
  
"Yes, exactly," I said, even though I was uncertain of how his take on the events differed from mine.  
  
He leaned forward and asked, "Did you go to Amdír in Lórien and ask him to lend his forces to Lindon?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Of course not," said my father. "Did that thought even cross your mind?"  
  
I shook my head.  
  
"You came here, Thranduil," he said, "because no matter how much you think you want to leave this place or how much you wish you could hate me for being so hard on you, this is still your home. You love this forest and the people within. When you thought it was in danger, you put aside your personal fears and came back to protect it. Did you think I would be angry with you for running away?"  
  
"I thought you would tie me to a tree in the middle of the forest and leave me to be eaten by bears," I answered truthfully.  
  
He laughed at that. I don't remember him ever laughing before. "You see your first thought was for Eryn Galen," he said. "The possible consequence of being eaten by bears was secondary. That's why you came back. For your people and your land."  
  
Of course he was right. He was right about my reason for returning, and about my fear of his anger, bears or not. When I first left and all through the two summers I spent away, I had convinced myself I could never go back. His anger would be so great that, if he didn't kill me, he would at least make sure I never saw the outside my bedroom again. I often wondered if, in that case, he would allow me to marry, and whether I would have to raise my children entirely inside one small room. But once I made my decision to return, the fear of him didn't cross my mind again.  
  
It was at about this time that I noticed he looked neither ready to tie me to a tree nor determined to keep me locked in my room until the end of time. "Are you angry at me for running away?" I asked cautiously.  
  
"I was," he said. "When you first left, I was certain you would return within a day. When you didn't, I sent out messengers to find you and drag you back. I wanted to strangle you then for being so stupid. But after that I was terrified. I thought you must be dead. Then the messengers returned to say you had been at Imladris but had escaped before they could catch you. When they told me that, I was relieved, but also impressed. That you had managed to stay away for so long showed not only skill but determination. That is a quality I've always admired."  
  
He stood up and walked to a small table, where he poured a glass of wine before continuing. "I knew it was my fault entirely that you left. I blamed only me. I told myself that if I had been less critical and demanding, that if I had not held such fantastic expectations, you would not have left. I began to realise that despite all the things I wished for you, all the qualities I wished you to possess and all the knowledge I wished you to have, I had never taken the time to teach you what you needed to know. I had only ever scolded you when you, not knowing any different, failed to meet my mark. You must have thought me a terrible father."  
  
I didn't want to answer him, but he stared at me expectantly until I could stand it no more. I lowered my eyes and muttered, "Yes."  
  
"I only ever wanted you to show some sign that one day you would be a good king," he said. "Wisdom, passion, courage... any of those. While you were away I had time to think on the things you have done so far in your life to prove your strength, and after a year I began to think that running away and not looking back was the most courageous thing you've ever done. I began to admire you for it. I wished you would return so I could see how you had changed, if you had found all the gifts I wanted for you. I think you have."  
  
Dumbfounded, I stared up at him. I might have been dreaming for all the sense this conversation made. My father had never before so much as given a quick nod in approval of anything I did. Now he stood before me with a smile, gazing down at me with proud eyes that seemed to regard me as the great hope for our people. I wasn't sure what to think or do. After forty-nine years of disappointed sighs and scowls, praise is met with suspicion. I couldn't help but wonder when he would turn back into himself and go find a good tree-tying rope. But he held out his hand, which I took, and he pulled me to my feet.  
  
"But I think you should go change into some decent clothes now," he said. "And have a bath. You smell like a deer."  
  
I looked down at my leather outfit and dirty hands and nodded in agreement. I also felt a small sense of relief in that least he still knew how to criticise me in one way. Home wouldn't be home without the occasional reprimand.  
  
"And afterward," he added, "go see your mother. She's been terribly worried about you."  
  
After bathing and dressing in new clothes, I spent that afternoon and evening with my mother, telling her as much about my journey as I could while still omitting everything to do with Maglor. We talked until we both grew tired, and then I went to my old bedroom. Nothing had changed since I left. My clothes still hung in the closet, and all my thing still stood around on tables and shelves. Only the sheets and blankets on my bed had been freshly laid in honour of my return. I slept happily, and probably longer than necessary, glad as I was to be in a real bed again after the journey from Imladris.


	7. Aranienya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of the Second Age, Thranduil is forced to come to terms with his own worth. He leaves Eryn Galen behind, sets out west, and learns more in one year away than in forty-nine at home.

The next spring, in the year 3232 of the Second Age, a messenger from Imladris arrived at my father's gate bearing a letter with the seal of Gil-galad. My father read it carefully, speaking aloud the King's request for Eryn Galen to join his Alliance. Gil-galad had aligned himself with the Men of Arnor and Gondor to lead a vast assault on Mordor. Amdír had also agreed to fight. All he needed now was my father and victory was as good as assured. I watched in anticipation as my father read the letter once and then again before setting it down on his desk.  
  
"You may tell your King no," he said to the messenger when he looked up. "I do not believe war to be the best course for my people at this time."  
  
My heart leapt as I stared at him, shocked. "But you must!" I said.  
  
"I 'must' do nothing, Thranduil," he said.  
  
"They need you!" I insisted. "Lindon needs you! Not only Lindon, all of Ennor!"  
  
Still he shook his head. "This is Lindon's war, not ours. The force they have is substantial enough without us. It would be an unnecessary cost. Why risk the lives of my soldiers when the war can be won without them? It would be foolish."  
  
"What if Lindon loses?" I asked. "What if the force isn't enough, and they're defeated? Then what?"  
  
"If that is the case, we'll deal with war when we must."  
  
"That's not good enough," I said. "If Gil-galad's Alliance fails, the only army left between Thauron and control of all Ennor will be ours. And if Gil-galad fails, do you think we would stand a chance? We can't afford to take that risk."  
  
As I spoke, I could see a hint of doubt creeping into his eyes while he considered my argument. I pressed on. "When I returned from the west, you praised me for my courage and concern for our people. Don't you think I have their best interest in mind now? There is a good chance of war coming to us whether we take it now or later. Isn't it better to join with a larger force when the odds are on our side rather than wait for certain defeat?"  
  
"But there is a good chance Gil-galad will succeed without us," he countered.  
  
"Maybe," I said. "But spirits in Mithlond and Imladris are low. They doubt their ability to win this war. If we join them we increase not only numbers but also morale. Is it not worth the risk to fight together now for a common goal?" I stepped toward him and put my hand on his shoulder. "Father, please. Consider my position. I'm not in favour of war any more than you are, but I do not think we have any other choice. You must trust me, for this one time at least."  
  
My father slowly nodded as he weighed the options in his mind. He didn't speak for several moments, but when he did it was to address the messenger once again. "I will think on it through the night," he said, "and give you an answer in the morning."  
  
He retired to his office then and I didn't see him for the rest of that day, or at all until the next morning when he came to the messenger with his answer. I could have shouted for joy when I heard him say that he agreed to lend a large part of his army to Gil-galad's cause. We started that very day to assemble our force, sparing only the minimum few to stay behind and guard the land in our absence. New weapons were made, as many as we could manage, and armour. Horses and pack animals were gathered. It all happened quickly but efficiently, my father not allowing any mistakes or delays. We marched for Imladris before the first day of summer, and on to war from there.  
  
My father died in that war. He may have counted himself as part of the Alliance, but he refused to follow the order of anyone but himself. His stubbornness cost him his life. One carelessly planned move killed not only him but a third of his soldiers. I watched as he led a premature charge into the heart of the enemy's territory, and watched as the fiends of Mordor easily closed around their ranks and destroyed every last one of them. The enemy set the heads of our soldiers on pikes and made a bloody fence about their camp. Our archers sent back fiery arrows to burn it down for the decency of the dead, but still the damage was done, morale was crushed, and the battle came to a standstill while no-one dared attack for several days.  
  
Gil-galad stood beside me as we watched the pike-fence burn. I was hardly aware of my tears, or of how acutely alone and lost I felt, until he gently put an arm around my shoulders. I leaned against his body, letting myself just cry. He stroked my hair and back in a gesture he must have known was inadequate to still the pain. Still I clung to him, telling myself that his tall frame and dark hair were so similar to Maglor's, even thought the comparison was hardly fair and neither calmed nor soothed me. It only intensified the pain to think of him, far away as he was, unable to comfort me in the most desperate time of need. I wanted my father back, but I wanted Maglor back more.  
  
Gil-galad took me to his tent, where I slept fitfully through the night while he and Elrond watched over me like worried parents. By morning Elrond had left, though Gil-galad stayed to feed me heavy stew and make certain I ate every bite, though I insisted I wasn't hungry.  
  
"Yeh naid yehr straingth, little Kaing of Grainwood," he said.  
  
I don't think I had realised until that moment that I was the king. The thought hadn't even crossed my mind. But yes, my father was dead, and logically I was expected to take his place. All my life he'd been telling me that one day I would be King, but I had never given serious thought to the reality of that situation. I never thought he would die.  
  
"Why didn't you help him?" I asked Gil-galad. "Why didn't you send your soldiers after him?"  
  
"Deh yeh thaink it would hev maid eny difference teh the slaughter?" he said.  
  
I shook my head. "No." He was right. I could try to imagine all I wanted that if Gil-galad had sent a battalion to my father's aid then maybe he, at the very least, would have survived, but the wishing was pointless and Gil-galad was right. The outcome would have been no different.  
  
When I returned to my own camp that evening I was given a crown of grass woven with the only leaves, sickly and dry, that my father's squires could find. My squires, I told myself, though it would be some time before I could think of them as such without a tinge of guilt. The stars could not shine through the thick haze that hung over the battlefield, so soldiers lit hundreds of tiny torches in place of starlight for my coronation. I became King of my diminished people under a smoky black canopy, surely an ill omen if there ever was one, though an appropriate symbol for my leadership skills all the same. I hadn't the slightest clue of what to do or how to lead them.  
  
I had no real choice but to follow Gil-galad's command for the remainder of the war. I had no idea how to lead an army, and he did. It was the natural order of things for him to be in charge. I often sat in his tent and talked with him, listening as he gave me suggestions of what he thought I should do, though he never told me outright "do this" or "do that". He had become King when he was not much older than I, and knew better than any how I felt and what I needed to hear. I almost always agreed with his advice. Some called me wise for it, though I knew I was simply inexperienced and afraid. At the least, though, I lived to return to Eryn Galen seven years later.  
  
I thought of Maglor often after the war. I thought of my promise to return to him, now impossible to keep. I was King now. I could not leave my people. I sent scouts to find him, but they always returned alone. Two reported finding a cabin in the location I described. It had been abandoned some years before and no trace was left of the one who had lived there. I wondered where he had gone and what he was doing, and if he ever thought of me. I wondered if he knew I was King. I thought about him every day, then every other day, then every once in a while. I tried to keep myself from thinking too much, knowing that it would never do me any good. He was gone and I would never see him again.  
  
I married early in the Third Age, to a good lady who is older than I by many years but still a close friend and lover. She doesn't know about Maglor, and I likely won't ever tell her. We're happy as we are with no added complications. We're expecting a third child soon. A girl this time, she hopes. I always wish my father were around to see our two young sons, or to see me for that matter. I like to think he'd be proud of what I've done so far. I know Maglor would be. Carin ilqua ron, alassenen.  



End file.
